


Meal

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 17:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13463097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: He should know better, but Gladio orders in.





	Meal

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Gladio doesn't have a lot of time to cook for himself, so he orders out. Unfortunately, the guy who delivers the food from his favorite restaurant is the prince's best friend, who is also ALWAYS 30 minutes late at least. He'd be more pissed about this if Prompto weren't so cute” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7662382#cmt7662382).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s nothing in his fridge to tide him over, which is just as well, because he shouldn’t _have_ to resort to that when he’s already placed his order. The restaurant—his hands-down favourite and only four blocks from his apartment—promises delivery in under thirty minutes, which, given his distance, should be even less. But it’s almost _always_ late, and one hour after he’s placed the call, Gladiolus is still stomping about his kitchen on the brink of bailing and turning on the stove.

Most days, he doesn’t have any time to cook, not between his work and working out and the commute back and forth. That’s the main reason he usually goes for takeout. He’s not that good at cooking anyway, and his fridge is never stocked for it. But at this point, he’s getting desperate. His stomach feels like it’s going to claw itself apart if he doesn’t down something _fast_. He doesn’t know why he bothers with that restaurant. It’s not like this is new. He figures that by the time his food shows up, he could’ve made himself an entire banquet for ten.

He pours himself another glass of water that won’t do a thing to soothe him. He knows exactly which delivery boy it must be today. It has to be the young man with fluffed up blond hair and a light smattering of freckles, skinny but toned, often in black biker gloves and always with a wristband. Picturing the little twig on his doorstep, Gladiolus daydreams about yelling the guy’s head right off for ding this _every single time_. It doesn’t matter if the man’s well-known as the prince’s best friend. Every time Gladiolus sees that smiling face plastered in the tabloids, one thin arm draped over the illustrious Prince Noctis himself, Gladiolus gets a little tremor in his gut.

Tonight’s the night. He’s finally going to stop pussy-footing around the guy’s shit work ethic, like all the other customers must do, and make sure that his next meal arrives _on time._ When his doorbell finally buzzes, Gladiolus is ready.

He stomps into the cramped hallway, wrenches the door back, and _glares_ down at the familiar blond before him. Sure enough, _Prompto_ , a name straight from the magazines and cheap nametag on his chest, smiles up at him. The man thrusts a plastic bag forward, greeting, “Hey there! Sorry for the wait, big guy—you wouldn’t believe the traffic.”

Gladiolus never buys the ‘traffic’ excuse, not for a minute, because no other delivery boy seems to have that trouble. But the quick throw in of ‘big guy,’ does give him a short pause, and he can feel his cheeks heating, like they often do when Prompto so casually nicknames him. 

When Gladiolus doesn’t take the bag right away, Prompto shakes it lightly—more poor delivery etiquette—and laughs, “And I hate to starve you especially—you must really need your food with a build like that!” He even jabs his free hand forward, lightly poking Gladiolus’ chest. The firm muscle there seems to draw Prompto’s eye, and again, it freezes Gladiolus’ readied anger.

He does _want_ to snap, but, just like every time he tries this, it’s made ridiculously difficult by just how damn _cute_ this Prompto is, especially when he’s grinning so sweetly up, tone both friendly and full of admiration. Begrudgingly, Gladiolus can admit he can see why the prince might like this idiot.

He still tries to say _something_ , but just when he’s about to finally manage, Prompto absently licks the corner of his lip. It’s such a small, quick action, but it’s enough to send Gladiolus off kilter again, his eyes now fixed on those smooth, pink lips, so very _expressive_. He can tell this guy’s definitely _fun_ , and he’d probably be wild in—

Gladiolus cuts himself off and snatches up the beg, grunting, “Thanks.” Which he mentally kicks himself for, because Prompto doesn’t deserve gratitude, just some serious discipline. He has to bite back the urge to bark for Prompto to fall to the floor and give him twenty push-ups.

Obviously oblivious to Gladiolus’ bitter fantasies, Prompto chirps a pleasant, “Sure.” Then he cocks his hips to the side, lands his hands on them, and parts those too-kissable lips to say something _else_ , but Gladiolus isn’t having it.

He already paid on the phone via his card. Tip included. Even though if he’d known it would be Prompto delivering, he wouldn’t have. And he doesn’t want to stand around and have Prompto’s weird magnetism sucker him into another tip on top of that.

Before it can get any worse, Gladiolus steps back into his apartment and promptly slams the door closed. He can hear Prompto’s squeak of surprise right through it. Face hot and stomach bothered, Gladiolus marches back for the kitchen with his food, and he eats in bitter silence, annoyingly cute blonds still stuck on his brain.


End file.
